


Path to Peace

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Competition, Dancing, Discussion of Bullying, Enemies, F/M, Forgiveness, Memory, Peace, References to Sexism, References to racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 15:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17645747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Kel and Zahir dance and remember times they were young and foolish.





	Path to Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Peculiar Pairings Bingo event at Goldenlake.

Path to Peace

Zahir stood in the shadows of the ballroom, watching Keladry of Mindelan and wondering if she knew that she was staring at Queenscove whirling the plump but undeniably pretty Lady Yukimi around the dance floor with an expression of mingled love and loss on her usually inscrutable stone face. He was reminded of the look that had always fallen over her as a page whenever Queenscove had waxed too poetic about whichever painted court lady had stolen his heart that month. 

It was most peculiar that he should observe the wistful sorrow of lost love on her face, he thought, when there had never been any love lost between them. Indeed it was so strange that he next wondered why he was gazing at her so intently and decided that it must be to distract himself from the hundreds of sword-sharp eyes he could feel glaring at him even when he tried to ignore them. If looks could kill, he thought with a tightening jaw, he would have been slain by courtier’s the day he arrived in Corus. 

“Is my dress so ugly that you feel you must stare at me, Sir Zahir?” Keladry’s voice, cool as an oasis, told Zahir that she had taken her eyes off Queenscove long enough to notice his evaluating gaze. 

“Your dress isn’t ugly. It’s just unusual to see you in a dress. I don’t remember you wearing one since your first year as a page.” Zahir recalled thinking that she looked like a cow in fine fabrics and ribbons when she had worn dresses as a page, but now he couldn’t help but noticing that the rich ivy of her gown brought out similar green hues in her hazel eyes. To cover this awkward realization, he extended his hand to her as smoothly as he could. “Would you honor me with a dance?” 

She contemplated his outstretched palm for long enough that Zahir was certain she would refuse him—and he could add the shame of being publicly rejected by Keladry of Mindelan to the long list of reasons why nobles eyed him with searing scorn—before she accepted it. He lead her onto the dance floor, surprised at how willingly she followed him as they fell into step with the swaying partners around them. 

“You shouldn’t have asked me to dance.” Keladry tilted her chin at the many faces on the edge of the dance floor gawping at the odd couple they made. He could imagine the whispers about them—the Girl and the sand scut. “It’s made you the target of many stares.” 

“I was always the target of many stares.” Zahir snorted derisively, whether at her naivety or the prejudice of the courtiers, he didn’t know. “It’s the natural consequence of being a sand scut at court.” 

“You shouldn’t call yourself that.” Keladry’s fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Your enemies win if you call yourself by the same spiteful names they do. They want to slip into your head and change the way you perceive yourself. Don’t allow them to violate your dignity like that.” 

Zahir wondered if she considered herself one of his enemies after their clashes in the pages’ wing and then decided that was a question he didn’t want answered, so he switched the subject to one slightly less uncomfortable. 

“I’m astonished you agreed to dance with me.” Zahir kept his gaze fixed over her shoulder on the pretext of ensuring that he didn’t steer her into some strange court lady. 

“I’m a diplomat’s daughter.” Keladry’s tone was polite but dispassionate. “I was raised to seek all paths to peace.” 

“Might there be a path to peace for us then?” Zahir was amazed by the flutter of hope suddenly beating in his chest. “If I apologized for bullying you and your friends in the pages’ wing, would you forgive me?” 

He had, he remembered with shame, been so young and foolish then even when he had stopped hazing Mindelan and her friends. Back then, he had only ceased with the bullying because he had recognized that the fights wasted time and strength he should have devoted to serving his king. After fighting in the Scanran War, after witnessing firsthand the destruction the killing machines could inflict and the pain of the survivors that could never be healed, he had understood that the enemies he thought he had in the pages’ wing hadn’t been his true enemies at all. 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Keladry’s faint sigh tickled Zahir’s neck as she echoed what was in Zahir’s mind. “We were all so young and foolish when we were pages.” 

“I don’t remember you ever being young and foolish.” Zahir’s lips curled because even as a page she had always seemed so unshakeable in her poise. Maybe that had been why he, who was plagued with such uncertainties under his mask of contempt for everyone and everything, had felt a special loathing—deep as envy—of her. 

“I was young and foolish enough to treat scuffles with you and your friends seriously as a battle against Blayce.” There was a glimmer of humor that Zahir had never seen in Keladry’s eyes, and it entered his mind that perhaps the path to peace would one day take them from page wing enemies to lovers. 

“Everything is serious in the pages’ wing.” Zahir would never forget the relentless competition of the pages’ wing—the endless drive to be the best and the perpetual fear that he would never be good enough no matter how hard he worked—and the sense of looming failure that had dominated his days. “Perhaps we could engage in a friendly competition in honor of those times?” 

“What friendly competition did you have in mind?” Keladry lifted an eyebrow. 

“Nothing serious.” Zahir nodded at the drinks table manned by bored squires pouring wine and cider for guests. “First person to the drinks table wins.” 

“What is the prize?” Keladry’s question assured him that she would accept the challenge—that she could no more resist a competition than he could. 

“The satisfaction of claiming victory.” Zahir gave her a smug smile that faded as soon as she glided out of his hold on her waist and began slipping through the pairs of lords and ladies twirling in rainbows of silks and satins. 

“Then I claim the satisfaction of victory,” she called over her shoulder. 

“You can’t claim the satisfaction of victory until you’ve won.” Zahir scowled as he elbowed his way through the courtiers with considerably less grace and manners than Keladry had displayed. 

“I claim it preemptively.” Keladry’s voice was almost mischievous—a tone he had never heard from her before—and Zahir was surprised by the joy he felt flow through him at that simple sound. He would, he decided, have to say something to make her sound mischievous again soon.


End file.
